There were two of them coaching the other team and I couldn’t decide which one held the greater sex appeal for me, but it was the bold, lanky sandy-haired one who introduced himself and asked for my number. Sam strolled back to the sidelines and held open his hand to show the reserved, muscular, brown-haired one his prize. The quieter man glanced over his friend’s shoulder, meeting my eyes across the gym. Our gaze held for a full five seconds.
A week later Sam called—his voice raspy from coaching—and invited me to his birthday party. And that is how, eleven days after I couldn’t decide which one I was most attracted to, I happened to be perched on the kitchen counter of the blond one’s apartment sipping a Coke while being introduced to the friends who’d come to celebrate his thirty-second year.
I wore my favorite faded, well-worn jeans that sat low and loose on my hips with a white tuxedo shirt, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the front unbuttoned to the top of my white lace bra. My sun-bleached hair hung in relaxed waves, framing my face, which was bare except for a hint of lipgloss and mascara. Classic rock played on the radio and I gently swayed to the likes of Def Leppard, AC/DC and Aerosmith.
The other one, the one who hadn’t asked for my number, walked through the door. He didn’t see me. I watched him mingle among the group, back-slapping the guys and side-hugging the girls, slowly weaving his way toward the kitchen presumably in search of a beer. Then he saw me. Sam must not have told him I was coming. His mouth hung slightly open, unformed words to friends halted in mid-sentence. I smiled. He closed the distance between us.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, a disbelieving grin lighting up his face.
“Sam called and invited me.”
“I’m glad he did. I’m Jason.”
“Hi Jason, I’m—”
“I know. You’re Marian.”
I accepted his prior knowledge of my name as the compliment it was and we continued talking and flirting until Sam approached.
“Looks like you two finally met,” he said, looking pleased.
I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow at him. His non-verbal reply of a grin and wink at me and a slap on the shoulder to Jason told me all I needed to know. He had invited me for his friend. And I was glad.
The night progressed as so many of these things do. Small talk, eye contact, light touches, body language—they wove in and out of each other building the sexual tension. I glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was time for me to leave, but before I could start my goodbyes, Jason leaned in and whispered my ear.
“You look so damn sexy.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I smiled, my voice lowering to a smoky tenor, “If you’ll walk outside I’ll kiss you.”
Out the door we went and embraced in the light of a streetlamp. My arms went up and around his neck while his encircled my waist. The full length of our bodies leaned into each other as our lips met. Mouths opened and tongues teased. Electricity ran up and down my spine as his strong arms crushed me against his hard body. The kiss deepened as I arched against him, rose to my tiptoes and felt the swelling of his arousal against my pubic bone. His hands dipped under the base of my shirt, toying with the waistband of my jeans and gently stroking upwards. Thumbs and fingertips traced along the front of my ribs until they reached the underwire of my bra, that delicate lacy barrier between feminine curve and masculine touch. We parted, eyes wide and breathless.
“I have to go,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said huskily.
I lifted my face to his, inviting a farewell kiss. He dipped his head and gently caressed my mouth with his own before opening the door to my car for me. I climbed in, started the engine and rolled down the window.
“Goodbye Jason and thank you,” I said before driving into the night. When I looked in the rearview mirror he was still standing where I’d left him, hands in his pockets, watching me go, bathed in the light of our streetlamp.